Puslapio vaizdai

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whofe heavy Looks foretel
Some dreadful Story hanging on thy Tongue?
Mef. Ah, one that was a woful looker on,
When as the Noble Duke of York was flain,
Your Princely Father, and my loving Lord.
Edw. Oh, fpeak no more! for I have heard too much.
Rich. Say how he dy'd, for I will hear it all.
Mef. Environed he was with many Foes,
And ftood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks, that would have entred Troy.
But Hercules himself muft yield to odds;
And many Stroaks, though with a little Ax,
Hews down and fells the hardeft-timber'd Oak.
By many Hands your Father was fubdu'd,
But only flaughter'd by the ireful Arm
Of unrelenting Clifford, and the Queen:
Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high defpight,
Laugh'd in his Face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his Check,
A Napkin, fteeped in the harmless Blood
Of fweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford flain:
And after many Scorns, many foul Taunts,
They took his Head, and on the Gates of Tork
They fet the fame, and there it doth remain,
The faddeft fpectacle that e'er I view'd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no Staff, no Stay.
Oh Clifford, boift'rous Clifford, thou haft flain
The Flower of Europe for his Chivalry,
And treacherously haft thou vanquish'd him,
For Hand to Hand he would have vanquish'd thee.
Now my Soul's Palace is become a Prison :

Ah, would fhe break from hence, that this my Body
Might in the Ground be clofed up in reft;
For never henceforth fhall I joy again,
Never, oh never fhall I fee more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my Body's moisture
Scarce ferves to quench my Furnace-burning Heart:
Nor can my Tongue unload my Heart's great burthen,
For felf-fame Wind that I should speak withal,


Is kindling Coals that fire up all my Breaft,

And burn me up with Flames, that Tears would quench.
To weep, is to make lefs the depth of Grief:
Tears then for! Babes; Blows and Revenge for me.
Richard, I bear thy Name, I'll venge thy Death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw. His Name that valiant Duke hath left with thee:
His Dukedom, and his Chair with me is left.

Rich. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagle's Bird,
Shew thy descent, by gazing 'gainst the Sun:
For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom fay,
Either that is thine, or elfe thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Montague, and
their Army.

War. How now, fair Lords? what fare? what News abroad?
Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful News, and at each Word's deliverance
Stab Poinards in our Flefh, 'till all were told,
The Words would add more anguish than the Wounds.
O, valiant Lord, the Duke of York is flain.

Edw. O, Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his Soul's Redemption,
Is by the ftern Lord Clifford done to Death.

War. Ten days ago I drown'd these News in tears,
And now to add more measure to your Woes,
I come to tell you things fith then befaln.
After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave Father fought his lateft Gafp,
Tidings, as fwiftly as the Poft could run,
Were brought me of your Lofs, and his depart.
I then in London, Keeper of the King,

Mufter'd my Soldiers, gather'd flocks of Friends,
March'd towards St. Albans to intercept the Queen,
Bearing the King in my behalf along:

For by my Scouts I was advertifed

That he was coming, with a full intent
To dash our late Decree in Parliament,

Touching King Henry's Oath, and your Succeffion:
Short Tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our Battels join'd, and both fides fiercely fought;
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,

C 3


Who look'd full gently on his Warlike Queen,
That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her Success,
Or more than common fear of Clifford's Rigour,
Who thunders to his Captives Blood and Death,
I cannot judge; but to conclude with Truth,
Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went:
Our Soldiers like the Night-Owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy Thresher with a Flail,

Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their Friends.
I cheer'd them up with Juftice of our Caufe,
With promife of high Pay, and great Reward:
But all in vain, they had no heart to fight,
And we, in them, no hope to win the Day,
So that we fled; the King unto the Queen,
Lord George your Brother, Norfolk, and my felf,
In hafte, poft-hafte, are come to join with yout
For in the Marches here we heard you were,
Making another Head, to fight again.

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War. Some fix miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers; And for your Brother, he was lately fent

From your kind Aunt, Dutchefs of Burgundy,

With aid of Soldiers to this needful War.

Rich. 'Twas odds belike when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his Praifes in purfuit,

But ne'er, 'till now, his fcandal of Retire.

War. Nor now my fcandal, Richard, doft thou hear:
For thou fhalt know this ftrong right Hand of mine
Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's Head,
And wring the awful Scepter from his Fift,
Were he as famous, and as bold in War,
And he is fam'd for Mildnefs, Peace and Prayer.

Rich. I knew it well, Lord Warwick, blame me not,
'Tis love I bear thy Glories makes me fpeak.
But in this troublous time what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel,
And wrap our Bodies in black mourning Gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our Beads.
Or fhall we on the Helmets of our Foes,


Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms?
If for the laft, fay Ay, and to it Lords.

you out,

War. Why therefore Warwick came to feek
And therefore comes my Brother Montague:
Attend me Lords, the proud infulting Queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their Feather many more proud Birds,
Have wrought the cafic-melting King, like Wax;
He swore confent to your Succeffion,

His Oath enrolled in the Parliament,

And now to London all the Crew are gone,
To fruftrate both his Oath, and what befide
May make against the Houfe of Lancafter.
Their Power, I think, is thirty thousand ftrong:
Now if the help of Norfolk, and my self,
With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welchmen, canft procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,
Why Via! to London will we march,
And once again beftride our foaming Steeds,
And once again cry, Charge upon our Foes,
But never once again turn back and fly.

Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak;
Ne'er may he live to fee a Sun-fhine Day,
That crys Retire, if Warwick bid him ftay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy Shoulder will I lean,
And when thou fail'ft (as God forbid the hour)
Muft Edward fall, which peril Heaven forfend.

War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:
The next degree is England's Royal Throne;
For King of England fhalt thou be proclaim'd
In every Borough as we pafs along,

And he that throws not up his Cap for Joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his Head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renown,
But found the Trumpets, and about our Task.
Rich. Then Clifford, were thy Heart as hard as Steel,

As thou haft fhewn it flinty by thy Deeds,

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw. Then ftrike up Drums, God and St. George for us.

C 4


Enter a Messenger.

War. How now? What News?

Mef. The Duke of Norfolk fends you word by me, The Queen is coming with a puiffant Hoft,

And craves your Company for speedy Counfel.
War. Why then it forts, brave Warriors let's away.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northumberland,
and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets.
Queen. Welcome, my Lord, to this brave Town of York,
Yonder's the Head of that Arch-enemy,

That fought to be encompast with your Crown.
Doth not the Object cheer your Heart, my Lord?

K.Henry. Ay, as the Rocks cheer them that fear their Wrack; To fee this fight it irks my very Soul:

With-hold Revenge, dear God, 'tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my Vow.

Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much Lenity
And harmless Pity must be laid aside:

To whom do Lions caft their gentle Looks?
Not to the Beast that would ufurp their Den.
Whose Hand is that the Forest Bear doth lick?
Not his that fpoils her young before her Face.
Who fcapes the lurking Serpent's mortal fting?
Not he that fets his Foot upon her Back.
The smallest Worm will turn, being trodden on,
And Doves will peck in fafeguard of their Brood.
Ambitious Tork did level at thy Crown,
Thou fmiling, while he knit his angry Brows.
He but a Duke, would have his Son a King,
And raise his Iffue like a loving Sire;
Thou being a King, bleft with a goodly Son,
Didft yield confent to difinherit him;
Which argued thee a most unloving Father.
Unreafonable Creatures feed their Young,
And though Man's Face be fearful to their Eyes,
Yet in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not feen them even with thofe Wings,
Which sometimes they have us'd with fearful flight,
Make War with him that climb'd unto their Neft,
Offering their own Lives in their Young's Defence?


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